Pretty Things
by lefcadio
Summary: Spoilers for the end of the manga. Misa thinks she's coped with everything life's thrown at her, but in the end, pretences can't last.


"_...the room is on fire as she's fixing her hair..."_  
- The Strokes, 'Reptilia'

She's used to the silence by now; it lends a religious reverence to this journey they make in the dead of night. But isn't that how it should be? She doesn't need to look around her to see the lit candles; pinpoints of light cradled carefully within steady hands, or to see the solemn faces, all but hidden beneath the heavy, shadowed hoods.

The night sky stretches out above them; hardly any stars can be seen, but the bright lights of the city below glitter madly in their stead.

She presses her lips together, and tastes the lipstick that keeps her going. She knows they're all keeping their distance from her - but it's a gesture that's entirely undeserved.

This is all for him.

"Lord Kira."

----

Misa had always like pretty things. As a little girl held in her mother's arms, she'd reach up and play with jewelled earrings, fascinated by the way they sparkled in the light. Her mother would smile with those shiny red lips and pet her hair, cooing, "oh, my Misa-Misa, you're so _cute_!"

This hadn't really changed as she grew older; Misa loved her glamorous mother dearly, and would sometimes sneak into her room while she was at work, to try on her shoes, jewellery, or make-up.

"Hey, Misa-chan..."

Misa jumped and looked around guiltily, lipstick inexpertly smeared across her mouth. "Oh! Sister, umm..."

She was not an only child, although sometimes Misa felt like it. It made her a little sad, but her older sibling, Mika, tended to keep to herself, spending most of her time with books.

"Playing with Mother's things again? Misa-chan, you're nearly ten - don't you think you should be doing something more important, like studying?"

Misa pouted, and ran to her sister's side to gaze up at her earnestly. "I don't need to study! I'm going to be like the idols on television - even Mama said I--"

"--I know," Mika interrupted, smiling down at her reluctantly, "she'd be so proud of you, huh? But..."

And then Misa was being hugged tightly, and Mika was mumbling into her hair, "...I still worry about you. Please, do your best."

So she nodded and clung to her big sister, and thought that perhaps their differences didn't matter so much after all.

----

"So, how... _are_ you?"

She pauses for a moment in the kitchen, the hot kettle heavy in her hands, and remains silent until the tea is poured.

It's mid-morning, and pale strains of sunlight filter through the stylish white curtains of her Tokyo apartment. Matsuda sits in one of the dark leather armchairs, looking faintly uncomfortable - she sees his gaze flicker from one old ornament to the next - skulls and elaborate candles; religious icons and deep velvets. Things she barely registers are there, now.

"Misa-Misa is... fine." She brings the tea over to the small engraved table, which sits low between the two chairs. She'd caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror on the way over; hair still neat, make-up immaculate... so she was okay. Everything was.

Matsuda doesn't look convinced; he mutters his thanks for the tea but doesn't touch it - instead he hesitates for only a second before questioning her directly, apprehension shadowing his eyes.

"Are you... involved... with the Kira groups? I..." She watches, hand tightening around her tea cup as he struggles to find what he needs to say, "he's _gone_, Misa-san; Light-kun is _de--_"

"I _know!_" The words are quietly forceful and she lowers her gaze, hiding her trembling hand in her lap. What did he hope to accomplish by visiting her, and saying these things? Always, they had this conversation, and always, the result was the same. "Why are you here, Matsuda?" Her lips twist, and she feels nothing as she looks at him; this man who once followed her with such devotion.

"I want... I want to save you. From _him_ and from yourself."

Oh. Well, this is new; not that it matters. She smiles and stands up, gesturing towards the door. "Misa-Misa is happy you came! I'm sure Matsuda needs to get back to his office, though, so don't let me keep you."

She knows her light laugh is utterly convincing; she is an actress, after all. But Matsuda doesn't smile. He shakes his head and is already at the door when he says, "please, Misa-san. Stop pretending."

The door shuts with a click and she stares, frozen. Stupid Matsuda doesn't know anything.

Misa-Misa is resilient; she carries on through it all.

----

"You've been approached by an agency? Oh, darling, that's _wonderful_!" her mother cried, taking Misa's hands, "it's about time someone noticed your beauty and talent. Don't you think, Mika-chan?"

Mika was lying sprawled on the living room sofa, studying for her upcoming university entrance exams; she looked up with hair falling in her face and smiled fondly at Misa for a second, before returning to her book.

"The man said they want me to do modelling, and maybe more! What if..."

Misa was sixteen years old when she appeared in her first magazine.

She adored it - the expensive cosmetics, the beautiful clothes; Misa drowned herself in her work, and perfected her cheerful, innocent persona.

But then, back then, wasn't that the real Misa anyway?

----

Death, death, death.

Misa sits alone after Matsuda's departure and thinks that maybe, she should be used to it by now.

Smile, smile, smile. It's still okay.

In her perfectly manicured hands she holds an old photo - it's worn around the edges, and slightly bent. It's of a teenage boy, with innocent eyes and a confident, happy smile.

Misa doesn't think she recognises him.

It's Light, though, _her_ Light - even if this is the only picture she has of him; even if it was his mother who gave it to her; even if this is a photo from two years before she met him.

By the time she'd fallen in love with him, he'd no longer approved of photographs. Too risky. Even so, she wishes she had one of the two of them together; something tangible, something... permanent...

She shoves the picture back into a draw, and heads to the bathroom to wash her hair.

----

"W-what?"

Her voice had dropped to a dull whisper; throat dry, heart pounding, a sick feeling settling in her stomach. Mika's garbled, panicked voice was rendered almost incoherent by tears and the crackle of the phone line, but the meaning was clear enough.

Misa's phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a plastic clatter, spinning away under the fridge. She stood there, frozen, staring at the half-full sink - she couldn't say for how long - until the rice cooker beeped.

Right.

Stiffly, mechanically, she unplugged it, and didn't even notice the hot tears spilling down onto her cheeks.

At her parents' funeral, Misa made sure to look her best. Her newest dark dress; silver crucifixes and rings; the effects of her make-up unmarred by tear stains or red eyes. It was what Mama would have wanted, she knew.

_Smile, Misa-Misa, smile! Wink for the camera; perfect!_

So she let Mika take the urns, being the eldest sister, and returned home to her empty apartment. The next day, she took four hours getting herself ready, and went into work as normal.

----

Misa's always liked pretty things. She still selects her jewellery with care, and will stop whatever she's doing to run into a shop and delight in surveying their rings or silk gloves; whatever it is she feels she needs that day.

Misa carries on. She always has before; why stop now?

But sometimes, what Matsuda said comes back to her: '_stop pretending'_. And so sometimes, she'll waver, and the mask she'd never admit to will slip.

_(Her Light, Kira, he's not coming back--)_

Misa still sees what's not there, though. Still sees hope for him, and for all of them for whom he symbolised morality and righteousness.

It was he who brought her parents' killer to justice; he who had made her smile honest once again.

_(I don't want that to change, I don't want to grieve--)_

But then there's a knock on the door, and she hears Matsuda's concerned voice calling out to her.

It's been... a long time. She hesitates for a moment, and then approaches the door to let him in.

It's not until later that she realises she forgot to put on her lipstick.


End file.
